


Flirting with Death

by Reservation_Red



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bloodborn-Inspired!AU, Dark, F/F, Gothic, Trying something new for myself., Writing Pracice: Vocabulary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6754432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reservation_Red/pseuds/Reservation_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The illegitimate child of the King's loins-- spread the fires, burn the incense, and pray that Death does not find us, pray it creeps only where darkness lies-- the void that is the Bastard Princess, Omen of the Saints, Historia Reiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Antiquated streets overlapped each other through twisting corridors, alleyways, and bridges, leading up and down their countless passages on the ostensibly vertical yet sprawling city-state of St. Valencia. Its myriad of edifices were built upon each other by blackened wrought iron and to be only further stacked with innumerous dark-washed bricks and slabs of polished, fine Rosewood, constructed into capacious spires and skyscrapers that evoked the emotion of being nugatory in its grace. Its eminence was amplified by the precipice it was perched above, looming over a vast, perpetually crystalline lake, serving as another dizzying defense to the impregnable city. Where the cliffs sunk stood a hoary forest, blanketed in moss and horrors of the night, warded only by the incensed streetlamps that stamped the Farewell Road and its linkage to the nearby villages.

Driving out of the imposing forest was a sumptuous, gilded carriage, drawing down the cobbled, mossy roads to the constellation of lanterns and witching fires of a nameless village. So late into the night that many were asleep when it arrived unnoticed—its only sound being of mud and hooves and the soft rattle of metal and wood. For those who were conscious they dared not peek—understanding curiosity was a privilege best not tested to the shadows of the night. The carriage went further past the village and came to a halt upon the fringe of a cottage’s property. It was almost unremarkable except for the flicker of candlelight in its window.

“This is it,” the scraggly man rapped his knuckles against the door, “be careful—the incense is cheap here. I will try to be quick.”

The carriage creaked as he strode down the folding step and onto mud. It squelched under his boots as he strode to the cottage’s threshold, knocking thrice.

It did not take long for the artless door to open, revealing the pale face of a beautiful woman.

“You’ve returned,” she exhaled, eyes lighting up in the candlelight as she parted the door, beckoning him inside.

In minutes, she had stoked the fire to a roar, casting the meek room aglow, whisking to and fro from the joint kitchen, heating a pot of tea.

Not once did the woman speak, but her silence was just as penetrating as her imploring thoughts, waiting for the news she feared.

“The College was not fond of my experiment,” he told her, eyes staring at the darkened hallway, “once the professor had discovered my research—I was thrown out.”

She dropped the cup of tea, spilling and breaking it on the ground, but he was unperturbed as she shakily picked up the scattered pieces.

“However,” he finally added, “the professor was fond of me—enough to where the worst he did was throw it to the flames, saving my reputation and innocence from discrimination.”

The woman didn’t stop trembling as she deposited the pieces onto a table, grabbing another cup of tea for the gentleman, and succeeding as he took it from her unsteady hands.

“I also kept copies. I think he knew so, but he did not ask as I was discharged from my studies, and irrevocably suspended.” He sipped it, refusing to taste its insipidness

“T-That’s good,” she scarcely whispered, sitting on a crude stool off to the side of him.

“So you believe,” he forgave her ignorance, “but it seems that it only complicated our situation.”

“O-Our?” She inhaled, nearly tottering off as she stood, quaking.

“Certainly, doctor, you mean that it’s your problem…” She reminded him of their contract.

“Not quite yet,” he exhaled, almost feeling responsible for her atrociousness, “my cohorts have yet to contact me about our arrangement. When I learn of it, I will make haste at once.”

Her shapely face soured as she glimpsed at the ground.

“But, I do require more blood to present and argue my research—some men believe with only their eyes.” He pulled out an empty vial and purified emblem.

The woman clicked her tongue in a hiss, stamping and leaving into the hallway which his eyes never strayed from. It was quiet for moments until she emerged from its shadowy recesses, towing her daughter in hand. The little child was no less than seven, bandaged up and down her right arm, legs wobbly and bruised, eye swollen with a raspy cough.

Her mother threw the girl’s bony arm to his lap, presenting the many rivers of veins to be used, and showcasing her cubital fossa to be ridden with stormy marks of previous ministrations.

Despite after the thousand times he pricked her, the child still meekly cried, tensing up.

“I-It hurts,” she hoarsely begged but did nothing to move, too fearful of the penetrating needle as he drew from her, taking all that he safely could and adding a new bandage to her left arm.

“In time, you will no longer suffer this,” he promised because her eyes were of a child’s, and, he was a guilty father, having left his wife and his son many years back for the life of conspiracy and research—for her eyes to yield the potential of what his son might one day express to him was too much to dwell upon. It was best shut upon empty promises.

The child held her left arm close, ignoring his failed words as her mother stepped forward once more.

“Next time, I wish it to be the last—and that you finally take this bastard away.” She forcefully pushed the child to him.

“Yes, Alma, I understand,” he corked the vial of blood and began to quickly and efficiently clean his tools with disinfectant, packing it away in his medical bag.

“Do you remember our set price?” She pressed as the little girl began to quietly sob—her tears shining in the roaring firelight, shedding onto the dusty, stone floor.

“Yes, Alma,” he repeated, “As we agreed, you will be given a summons to the Queen’s wedding along with a lifelong pension for your suffering.”

“Good.”

She swiftly turned, glaring at the child.

“Well, what are you doing, girl? Off with you.” She raised her hand and the child flinched away, fleeing back into the shadows whence she came.

“Perhaps… you should be kinder to her,” he had his equipment stowed away.

“It does not matter how I treat her,” she rumbled, setting to clean the used pot and cups. If he did not know her case, he’d say she was a violent woman without cause, but he knew her—she was a woman promised of wealth and power. The only thing in return she had to give was a child and her forged love for the man—but her investment came too late upon his untimely death. Or, perhaps, he never did intend to legitimize her child, or ever recognize her more than a mistress.

“It might once she’s older and realizes she may have the opportunity to punish your actions.” He put on his hat and bidding her goodnight.

Regardless of his forewarning, the woman would still hold contempt for the child—a blinding envy that the child still had a stake in riches and fame—a sore reminder that Alma the Maid would forever be impoverished and forgotten, but Historia Reiss the Bastard and all her gory afterbirth was worth more than her mother ever would be.

**~X~X-O-X~X~**

“It’s incredible,” he said under his breath, staring at the concoction brewing into a pearly white liquid, sealed tightly into its bottle. If it was to open it’d dissipate like steam in seconds.

He swirled it once more as his colleagues gasped at its preternatural glow, flinching back.

“A bastard,” one whimpered under his breath, “it cannot be—“

“Rod’s passing on the day of the Saints was an omen! An omen!” Another cried out, holding onto himself as the calmer men only observed, anxious.

“It is not that which we should fear,” the man turned, placing the vial upon a gas capturing contraption hooked up to a large container of blood.

“Rod’s infidelity and defilement,” the man cautiously popped open the vial, sending the cloud of gas through the vent, perfuming the collected blood, “is not the reason for this meeting.”

The other men grew restless, waiting for minutes as the mist settled until they began to see a reaction—the blood began to steam itself, almost broiling in the glass.

“What is going on?" A scholar asked, quieting another outburst from the priests.

“Now, I want you to view this—“he gestured and revealed another glass chamber where an infected rat sat, balled up, stressfully watching the group—its teeth yellow and orange, bloody froth foaming from its lips as a tiny maggot fell from its putrid mouth. Every now and then it would go in a frenzy, screeching and clawing at the glass.

He twisted a knob, making the blood drain through a tube, circling and winding to the rat’s prison, leaking it in.

By the disease, it hungrily ate and lapped until it began to sizzle—it began to lose its slow hemorrhaging and became less and less involved with the blood itself until it left it alone altogether, searching for an escape instead.

“It—“

“The Bloodlust,” one whispered, “it…”

“What illusionary magicks are you attempting to deceive us with!?” A priest barked, fear showing in the number of veins that were throbbing in his neck and face as he sputtered, lip quivering.

“None can cure the damned! None may ever atone for the sins of our incompetence! Our soiled hands had sent Heaven’s wrath upon us and we must pay, Jaeger, we must pay!”  


“Jaeger!” A man shot up, frowning—causing everyone to bow their heads in respect. Even Grisha, the man representing his evidence, obeyed the command.

“What have you done!?” His bark echoed throughout the spacious research chamber.

Grisha did not look up as he stared down at his own feet—the very two that led him to this unspeakable horror and repulsive truth.

“What have I done?” He almost chuckled.

“Sir, it is not what I’ve done—it is what Rod has done, that madman—that brilliant dead man.”


	2. A Cordial Beginning

After the meeting, the call was made in the quiet of the night. It was without contest as they marked the wedding with blood.

**.  
.  
.**

The carriage rattled down the muddled masonry of St. Valencia, weaving through the crowded thoroughfare.

“We’re late,” Dr. Jaeger muttered, glancing at his pocket watch and then Alma.

“A woman must be presentable,” she replied, unfazed as she fluffed up her fur stole. It was white as snow, as was her gown.

However, sitting near Dr. Jaeger, was Historia Reiss, donned in an onyx dress. It was as dark as sin as she sat still, holding her hands in her lap like a good child.

The bruises in her chelidon had healed as the blood ministration had ceased the day he last saw her.

“You will draw attention with her attire,” Jaeger spoke, tired of Alma’s lack of respect for the wedding itself. Such dark clothing was sacrosanct to funerals or religious ceremonies.

“She will draw attention. She isn’t my child anymore,” she sniffed. He did not pursue the topic as he leaned back, tightly gripping his cane, and wishing that tonight’s events would be done with. Successful and quick—just like a surgery—to remove the most potentially damaging tissue.

While the two ignored each other, Historia knew not to obtrude. She kept her eyes into her lap until she couldn’t stop herself from gazing out the carriage’s window, watching the plebeians and consumptives cheer them forward with their intoxicated gaiety.

Historia glanced at her mother in the corner of her eye, finding her distracted with priming herself.

It would be fine, she thought as she scooted closer to the window, pressing a hand up to it, and really observing the outside world.

Her eyes took in the sight—drinking its queerness and effulgence. Not ever was she permitted to leave her family’s estate, but she had always heard of the cripples and sickly. Now, they lined the streets as if to prove their very existence to her.

“Do you see the illness?” Jaeger asked, causing Historia to pull back from gaping, ashamed.

“Don’t bother with her,” Alma shot.

“But, she is my child now, isn’t she?” He spoke. Dr. Grisha Jaeger was an unimpassioned man. It showed through his monotonous voice even when he was being cheeky, it seemed.

Alma rolled her eyes, tolerating it, knowing this would be the last she’d have to endure.

Jaeger watched the people outside, raising their bottles and grogs in the air, clamoring with excitement, but his eyes always found the sickly amongst the crowd.

“Do you know why they are that way?” It was the first time he ever directly addressed Historia in conversation.

It was the first time she was ever given the chance to properly speak—to give her opinion.

At first, she reluctantly shook her head.

“No? What do you think has caused this?” he asked instead of explaining it right off.

Historia strained her lips, rubbing her knees together. Emboldened, she began again.

“T-their blood?” It was a guess.

And what a correct guess it was.

“Very good. A smart child,” despite the words, his demeanor did not change, “the Blood is dangerous, is it not? Look at the many who suffer its evil…”

Historia did as they slowly went.

Every group had it shares of woes, bandages, staves, wheelchairs, and skin conditions—a few of the lucky were unscathed, but the majority suffered.

“A lot, sir,” she responded, glancing over at him. She was afraid if she did not answer that he’d discipline her. Whenever she had to speak, it was followed by beatings.

However, she saw something glint in her eyes as she became transfixed with the crowd. The creature’s appearance was so sudden that Historia didn’t have the time to jump—she had always known of such creatures—the ones who lurked deep in the hearts of men, forest, and nights of the Hunt, but she had never thought to be unfortunate enough to witness it. It was tall and ethereal as it stood, intermixed with the crowd, implausibly by the people and guards as if it was normal. Its body was a blur of black, bristled fur as the carriage sped up—but it was its face, the face—Historia flinched backwards, finally realizing what she saw—the cracked skull of a terrible beast and its electrical eyes, piercing into her deepest nightmare! She saw its many maws and endless teeth as it wickedly smiled at her as they passed through the first clearance. The patrol bellowed out orders as the carriage went through the tunnel, leaving them in the eerie darkness, shrouded in silence.

Historia didn’t have the heart to peer out the window, ready to find that the Darkbeast had been awaiting inside the tunnel to devour them whole. She kept imagining the unspeakable horrors it’d do to them, but as they parted from the tunnel she found that they were intact. Not a single thing out of place.

“Everyone must suffer in this lifetime,” Dr. Jaeger spoke, running his thumb over his cane, “it is humanity’s fate to do so. We can never escape it.”

“Oh,” Alma badgered, “are you a foreigner?”

Grisha did not respond.

Alma smiled.

“Don’t you know where you are, Doctor? You’re in St. Valencia, home of the Healing Church, capitol and only place that boasts its Blood Ministrations! The cure-all for everything! You name it and we have a drop of blood for it.” She mocked.

“I’m very well aware, Alma.” Jaeger glared at her.

“Oh, then you’re not a foreigner, hm? You might want to keep your beliefs to yourself. People don’t like foreigners, or their strange beliefs.”

Historia hunkered down, pitiful in her innocence, scared their fighting was because of her and how she expressed her little knowledge.

“We must suffer regardless. Do you believe the Healing Church knows exactly what it’s doing? Hm?” All the years of enduring Alma seemed to have reached its limit.

Historia withdrew, glancing at the window, because it was a lot less scary to see a Darkbeast than imagine what her mother might do if she saw her eavesdropping.

Down the boulevard, rows upon rows of beautiful houses stood with gardens brimming with flowers. Each house had red candles lit in celebration but the streets were empty, as all the blue-bloods had already convened at the castle and its wedding.

Street lamps were accordingly placed on the sidewalks, glowing warmly.

And, it was within this second that Historia saw her—the woman of haunting—the very moment she forever became enthralled with her vision.

Underneath a lamp post stood a conspicuous woman—she was tall, bearing an impish smirk as she held her top hat to her chest, eyeing Historia and seizing her soul in an instant. It was her coruscant, golden eyes that startled Historia.

Just like the beast, the carriage kept going and she was gone from view.

Historia could only crane her neck out the window, attempting to view her once more, but she felt sharp nails dig into her ankle as she was yanked back in, slamming the back of her head against the window.

“Get back in here,” Alma seethed, readying her fist, but Jaeger slammed the butt of his cane down.

“Enough,” he barked, riled up, “cease your wickedness!”

Her mother’s grasp stung even after she relinquished it—but Historia put her head out of the carriage, hoping to see the woman again.

The one with the cosmic freckles—the handsome woman who had tipped her hat to her.

But she was long gone as they came to the second and final clearance, whisked away into the dark, ushered by the garrison.

**~X~X-O-X~X~**

Two stood behind the curtains of the royal podium, listening and watching the merry crowd from the shadows.

“You’re not happy.” The young boy named Eren spoke, glaring up at his adoptive older brother, but the man did not respond. He kept his cool gaze amongst the crowd. Every now and then he’d flick over at his appointed wife who smiled and laughed, conversing with anyone who went up to her, and thus attracting a large crowd who were enamored with her kindness and eloquence.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Eren seethed despite being only eight, clutching onto the cuff of Levi’s uniform. Unlike his wife, he didn’t go for attire that would suggest affiliation with the Healing Church. He adorned himself with medals he earned through war and conflict, dressing himself in the military uniform saved only for the highest of rankings. After all, he swore to the people and its safety, and not the delusional yet auspicious Healing Church which sought higher purposes of expansion within the city-state’s hierarchy. It was a joke that it was even calling itself a church when it began as an obscure medical facility, but people revered it as powerful as a religion with its miracles, and that was something Levi could not debate. He could only judge from its scant explanations that its bowels were far darker and unfathomable than it let on. He only had to be of position to question its authority to find the quivering truth.

“Are you even listening to me?” Eren was in tears, yanking on his cuff until Levi firmly took it back with a single motion, readjusting it with a frown.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he responded because anything else would only excite more outbursts.

“It does, too!” He cried, slamming a fist into his thigh.

Levi was not dense—he could see the more than filial love Eren expressed. Too many times did the boy attempt to act older, doing bold and stupid acts in hopes to be bathed in Levi’s attention, and, hopefully, one day, his love—but this wedding had stolen his unreachable dream and Eren bitterly fought it all day up to this very hour.

Levi sighed, feeling Eren punch his leg, wailing, struggling to provoke him.

“Mikasa,” he called out.

From the shadows nearby was a young girl just as small as Eren, wearing an oversized scarf she refused to rid of even during such an occasion.

“Take care of the brat.” Levi intentionally put distance between him and the child. After all, this infatuation was nothing more than a child’s fascination—to allow him any comfort was to encourage.

“Levi!” Eren wept as Mikasa hugged him, patting his back.

Luckily, the fanfare pealed through the ballroom as Levi strode out from the shadows and into the light with the roar of applause. He went to his wife’s side, bowing low to the crowd and linked his arm with hers.

“Hear thee,” the castle crier announced, “drink to the Crown and its blood lineage! Drink! May the union of the Captain of the Legion, Queen’s consort, Levi Ackerman, and her Fairness, Queen of St. Valencia, Choir of the Healing Church, Freida Reiss!”

Levi’s eyes caught onto blue eyes in the crowd—he felt his skin grow cold as his frown twitched.

The retiring Commander was standing, raising a glass to Levi with a smile— such a smile that it made Levi’s insides clench as he felt ill to his stomach, recalling what the Commander had said last night in his private chambers.

“Do not despair— all must come to an end as duty calls for sacrifice. By honor, you will always be of my own blood—the very river that runs through my heart, always.”


	3. The Red Wedding

Upon arrival, Dr. Jaeger exhaled, watching his brazen escort leave immediately, excited to mingle with the upper-crust. 

Historia stood at the empty steps of the castle, staring up at it in wonder—its architecture was sublime, resembling a cathedral than palace. 

“Historia,” the doctor motioned for her to join his side. She quickly went to him, waiting for his order. 

“Inside, you’re welcome to eat anything at the buffet table,” he encouraged, causing her eyes to widen, “but, you’re wearing an unfortunate color for the occasion. People might give you awful glances, but you will be fine." 

Historia nodded, feeling a bit guilty, but the idea that she could eat—actually eat something other than scraps and porridge!—was more than enough for her to muster courage for the fête. 

Jaeger spared a smile at her reddening, eager cheeks as her eyes were glued to the door where the music and laughter were emitting from. 

“I will be travelling to the gardens, now,” he kneeled down, patting her shoulder, “I suggest you to play with the other children. Try to stay out and away from the Royal couple.”

Historia furrowed her brows, not ripping her curious gaze from the open doors. 

“How will I know them?” she asked—her tiny hands taking the one on her shoulder. 

Dr. Jaeger was quiet for a moment, staring at her gentle grasp. 

“They will be the center of the party with crowns.” He reluctantly removed his hand from her hold, patting her shoulder once more before straightening up, adjusting his tie. 

“Now, run along, have fun, and be a good girl—just as you always are, you sweet babe,” he lightly dismissed her with a hand as she finally smiled, nodding, and racing up the stairs and into the light of the castle. 

Once she disappeared, a frown deepened on his face as he went towards the side gate of the castle where great briers grew, acting as a formidable wall around the precinct of the castle. 

He gave a rhythmic knock. The gate opened without a sound as he vanished into the shadows as the music and merriness echoed throughout the hour—what a short hour it would be.

**~X~X-O-X~X~**

Historia couldn’t help and smile as she raced between the scions and the upper echelons, heading towards the buffet. Something sweet lingered in the air, coaxing her to hastily come thither.

Men and women gasped at the sight of Historia and her odious dress, whispering as they derided the unknown parent for dressing a pretty child as such. However, it was not the dress—it only served as an abhorrent lure for ill attention— that brought the most gossip, it was Historia herself who bore the familiar and uncanny blue, lustrous eyes of Frieda Reiss. At observing this, it sent the few, perceptive aristocrats in a tizzy, gathering into tight circles, blathering on at the possibilities of a bastard, a marred marriage, and the future conflict to come. 

But, as the good doctor requested, Historia did her best to ignore their judgmental words and eyes as she found her mark—the delicious and imported fish pastries from the North! Her hands immediately caught onto a freshly baked morsel, eyeing it with awe. Unlike its name, the fish pastry was not made of fish, but instead baked in the endearing likeliness of it! Historia almost felt bad as she bit the tail of it, surprised to taste the texture of a custard filling! 

“Ah,” she chewed away, completely in bliss, causing the crowd who were gawking at her attire to almost melt as sweetening as the custard Historia adored. 

Again, this caused more disruption amongst the guests—who would dare dress such a beautiful and innocent child in such a disrespectful way? The depravity!

Historia chomped away, unaware of the people staring, but they eventually found her blameless as she was too distracted with eating the sweets. Certainly, somewhere, there was a detestable person who thought ill of the wedding and was too cowardly to outright say it—instead, brought a child to masquerade in their favor. 

The child ate four fish pastries before discovering a whole new world of food to be had—from the piquancy of cherried duck to the tart yet pleasing huckleberry mousse. She dined on the fine cuisine until her petite stomach was plump and full. 

The whole time, she was fearful that her mother would catch wind of her and tear her away from the food, reminding her that she was not worth the comfort of nourishment, but, she never came, and Historia grew bolder, realizing that the conversation in the carriage was true—her mother would no longer torment her. 

She wandered to the side of the ballroom with a warm, chocolate drink, sipping on it as patrons sat together, chortling as they helped administer each other the new intoxicating craze—blood. Vials upon vials were tucked in decorative snuff boxes, quickly being used one after another with a pungent odor. Historia frowned, scrunching up her nose and placing herself on a bench in the corner, under a lancet. 

The thought didn’t occur now that she was alone—the doctor had vanished and he had not returned from the gardens. The crowds were too thick to try and find the exit to the gardens, and, even then, if she miraculously found it, there were guards stationed at every aperture, ensuring nobody wandered into forbidden corridors. Yes, her mother may have disowned her, but did that mean Dr. Jaeger was adopting her? 

Historia sat her drink down, feeling her eyes water in fear. 

What if he didn’t, and he made an excuse to abandon her? Where would she go if the doctor didn’t take her?

Slowly, she began to sniffle, curling her knees up to her chest, hiccupping as the realization came crashing down on her, but it instantly ceased when she felt a frigid breath on her neck. 

Historia jumped out of her seat, whipping her head around to find nothing there except the sharp reflections of the ball through the panes. However, again came the ghostly chill as she watched a murky silhouette approaching her in the window. She tilted her head to the side, wondering who it might be, hoping it was the doctor, but nobody was there. 

She was alone.

Bewildered, she shot another glimpse at the reflection, and she beheld the crisp image of a woman, standing, adorning a fashionable hat and garb. Oddly, it was just like—  


“Child,” her voice was thick as honey, extinguishing every noise in the room to a murky, inaudible whisper, “do not be alarmed.”

Historia was rooted to the spot she stood as the woman bowed her head, chivalrously removing her hat, causing it to disappear from existence. 

“May I intrude?” her voice asked. 

Again, Historia glanced behind her, finding nobody there, and knowing very well the window was too thick to allow her unearthly voice to penetrate its glass. 

“Y-yes,” Historia couldn’t fathom what powers this being had if the mere sound of her voice caused the world to hush as if it was listening and lingering to every sweet syllable. 

The woman’s crooked smile glistened as she reached a hand out, causing the lancet to ripple like water—stretching and liquefying as the woman’s hand extended past its otherworldly dimension and into Historia’s. With lithe movements, the woman stepped into the ballroom from the glass, floating and grinning before Historia as the window returned to its respected state. 

Historia flinched, gasping loudly, backing up—no mere human could have such abilities, she knew, and there were no benevolent beings that could harness such magicks. 

Only terrible beasts had awesome powers that matched their infinite wickedness. 

“Thank you,” the woman graciously bowed, “for allowing me to join the festivities.” 

Historia wanted to cry out, hoping others had noticed, but none had—she was the sole witness. 

The entity chuckled. 

“I will do no harm, I assure you,” she promised, “in fact, I am very merciful to those who’re harmed.”

Slowly, she gracefully landed on the ground, standing before the child.

Historia knew it was the woman was the one from the carriage ride, and Historia also very well knew she should’ve ran—she should flee while she could, because this woman was dangerous—she was an unknown presence that was neither human or beast, but her fixation only deepened like frenzied blood. 

“And, while I am not accustomed to here,” she studied Historia, “I do understand black is habiliments of the grave.” 

She knelt down—just like the doctor—before Historia, kindness in her august eyes. 

“Who would dress such a dear darling for this occasion?” Her smile widened when she gently caressed Historia’s cheek, causing the girl to bashfully smile back, forgetting her own horror as a warmth spread throughout her body. 

“There, there,” she whispered, patting her head, and bringing her hand back, whispering something imperceptible, but she stopped upon seeing Historia trying to decipher it. 

“Now, dearest heart,” she soothed, “do not listen—for if you heard even one utterance, your mind would explode and descend into madness.” 

This made Historia sharply inhale, covering her ears as the woman whispered her eldritch knowledge. A wisp of strange phosphorescence ignited in the palm of her hand, casting her face aglow with a heavenly light. 

With a single puff, she lightly blew the light onto Historia’s face, causing the girl to squeeze her eyes shut, afraid of what may happen. 

“You may listen now.” The voice came from within her own mind as she did as she was told, opening her eyes and removing her hands from her ears. 

“W-What did you do?” she braved. 

“Why, I made you a dress as lovely as pearls, innocent as Baby’s Breath, and light as stardust,” she tilted her head, lowering a hand and taking Historia’s, showing her that her hands were gloved with the finest of silks. 

“Ah!” Historia regarded herself, finding that the woman didn’t lie—she wore the whitest of dresses! It was as beautiful and pure as swan feathers and the moon itself—in fact, it was such a stark white that any other white appeared to be dingy in comparison. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she stood once more, looking onward to a specific but mysterious location, "it seems I have time to spare, and I have encountered a lovely girl who deserves a dance, don’t you?” 

The music grew louder as the room grew darker, the candelabras and chandeliers shining like distant stars, and the stained glass of the lancets glowing. The people inside completely disappeared, shrouded in darkness as the woman took Historia’s hand, lifting her up and guiding her into flight as the floor itself dematerialized. 

But, it wasn’t scary—in fact, it only enchanted Historia as she was enveloped with a radiating happiness, smiling and giggling as the stranger twirled her, smiling and enjoying Historia’s laughter. 

Historia’s eyes shone brightly as she watched the stained glass vibrate as stately harlequin figures came out of them, flawlessly sweeping in a beautiful dance around them. 

The world became an array of colors and shapes as the woman laughed, leading their dance through reds, blues, greens, and yellows and purples, and then oranges and through every shade of pink. 

Nothing else in existence compared to the woman and her magick as Historia clung to the woman’s hands. 

“S-Stop,” she laughed, because her cheeks were hurting from her smiles, “y-you never told me your name!” 

The woman threw her head back, guffawing.

“My name? What a queer question!” she cried. “Why, I never heard that in eons! Oh, what a lovely, naïve child!” she nearly doubled in.  
Historia didn’t know why she found it so funny, but she joined in, too, because such unbridled joy was foreign to her—exotic and addictive. 

“Now, I do not want to startle you, but,” she smiled as the world was ripping apart, tearing itself down like wallpaper as reality was coming back, “I am called many things—but to you? I am Death.”

Historia felt the blood drain for her face as she was struck frozen. 

“However, just for you, dearest Historia,” the woman lifted the girl’s limp hand to her lips, “I will be called Ymir.” 

Like that, the woman disappeared, leaving Historia with a heavy sensation morphing in her kissed hand, manifesting itself into her palm and fingertips—austere and deadly as she fell to her knees, unobserved as the crowd cheered as the inauguration of Levi Ackerman to House Reiss began. 

“You will know what to do, little angel,” her words somehow sang through the loud clapping, “let your human morality be the compass—isn’t that what you humans do, anyways?”

A chuckle. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it, little Hunter? Men go with the tides, and, well, tonight, it’s going to be quite the splash as this city turns upon itself.” 

From across the room stood the newlyweds—Frieda with the veneration of her righteous ancestors, and with Levi, who was the cornerstone and child of the mighty and powerful army of St. Valencia and all her people’s pride. 

Frieda’s eyes scanned the room, gracing everyone with her attention and appreciation for standing witness to the new era of the monarchy. But, Levi, he had eyes for nobody but his commander. The commander who inadvertently taunted him with his acceptance and even approval of the marriage.

“For men and woman,” Frieda commanded the room’s attention into silence, “I appoint my new husband, future father of my children, protector of the realm, a crown as fit as mine, a hand as just as mine, and love as vast as mine, a seat at my side, a place at my table, and the warmth of my bed—by honor, you will always be of my own blood—the very river that runs through my heart, always.”

Frieda turned to face Levi, smiling, taking the crown from its rest on the Golden Fleece cushion. 

“And forever truly,” she whispered the end of the rite as she raised the crown.” 

Finally, Erwin bowed his head, walking away, ready to leave with the lieutenant, relinquishing his hold on Levi’s attention—but it was too late. 

The loud peal of a blunderbuss cut through the crowd like divine thunder!

People scattered, screaming and crying out in horror—for the Queen fell to the ground, bloodied, but not because of being wounded—no, it was not her blood! It was Captain Levi’s as he choked on quicksilver, clutching the spray that embedded itself on every inch of his upper body and throat. 

Frieda cried in shock, staring up at the assassin as gunshots rang out further.

“C-Commander!” Levi yelled, sniping the would-be assailants with his Evelynn. 

Erwin only spared a moment to gape before roaring, sending his stationed men to immediately to weed out the extremists, but they were ambushed by cloaked figures as the flank men had their throats slit, causing a skirmishes all around the ballroom. 

The royal guards immediately shot forward, grabbing the Queen, but she took herself from their grasp, rushing to Levi who fell forward, pouring blood out of his wounds. 

“Attend him! Attend him!” she begged as the guards nodded, grabbing him, causing him to cry out in pain as he was led to the surgeon’s hall. 

Frieda took after, but the other royal guards were skirted and given no quarter as a large and horrendous blade ripped through them like a butcher’s knife. 

“Frieda Reiss,” the blood soaked Dr. Jaeger acknowledged, his sharp teeth baring at her as he closed in, “I will end your family’s tyranny and awaken the people of St. Valencia to your vile truths! Your befouled blood will be put to an end!” 

He lifted his large, jagged saw as a guard threw himself in front of the queen, his heroics only seeing him ripped asunder in a single swipe. 

Frieda was bathed in blood as she fell down, slipping in the man’s writhing entrails and gore. 

“No matter,” he spat out the blood that splashed into his mouth, readying himself once more. He wound up his aim, readying to tear her apart.

But the commander and his lieutenant were too far to save her—and all his men disposed of the attackers, but they would never reach the Queen in time. 

“Daddy!” 

Jaeger hesitated, eyes bloodshot as he seethed, realizing who spoke out—his son, Eren, crying, covered in Levi’s blood, witnessing him in all his atrocity. 

“Ere—“a ghastly wail of a banshee made everyone stop dead in their tracks. Grisha Jaeger stood before the assembly, a ragged, gaping hole punched through his chest. His slick organs falling out like slimy eels—his guts, blood, and flesh sprayed across the royal dais like offal at a slaughterhouse. The Queen looked up at him, drenched in blood and splattered with meat, blinking in disbelief at the carnival of carnage she found herself trapped in. 

The hollow then spewed forth blood, frothing like a fountain as he staggered, turning towards the slayer. 

The crowd gasped, reeling backwards as he fell to his knees, breathless with his cavernous body, but his head still turned, staring at his killer. 

With an unidentified gun in hand, Historia reared, drenched in red, staining her once pure dress, as the gun fell from her broken shoulder as she gazed back at the man. The gun was too repugnant for comprehension that it seemed reality itself censored it, as if it was being seen in the corner of the human eye, and before it could be fully be analyzed, it dissipated into nothing. 

Frieda recognized Historia immediately by the familial resemblance as she laid in the bloodshed. 

With his curiosity quenched, Grisha fell forward, prostrated and extinguished of life as his blood seeped through the carpet and onto the marble in pools. 

It was, then, throughout St. Valencia, did the world know of the little girl named Historia Reiss—dressed in white, caped in the blood of a spoiled rebellion—bastard of the late King, Rod Reiss—Historia Reiss, the omen of saints. 

And so it plummeted.


	4. Impromptu Visit

The years to come were merciless with the rising numbers of disappearances and horrendous murders piling before the Queen’s feet. Especially as her people became addled with their obsession of blood ministration. Taverns dumped barrels of grog in the streets, replacing it with drums of thick, coagulated blood for its patrons, and brothels sold body and needle alike. It seemed the world became what violence intended—blood, blood, and blood, but without fear for its consequences. 

The turning point was when the old district of St. Valencia burned, the Queen could only watch its raging fires roar, and hear the symphony of beast and men howl over its destruction. The Queen had abandoned her throne and instead had servants deliver a modest chair to the closest window that overlooked the forsaken quarter of her city. 

“Queen Frieda, a new delivery,” the servants would come with letters from the Blood Church in the middle of the night.

It became a routine as the last of the fires were extinguished, leaving only the charred and smoke-choked remains of Old St. Valencia which were forever closed to public since then, but rumors still circled of mysterious figures disappearing into its forbidden doors. Queen Frieda resumed her throne, but the chair by the smoke-stained windows remained as it became a favorite spot to brood for the Queen. Nothing and nobody spared the Queen of her failure to rise as the incisive monarch she was intended to be, but, not all the guilt was placed on their monarch. In fact, the majority was shoved onto the newly appointed princess, Historia Reiss.

It was her fault, they said, it was her mere suggestion, that the city of St. Valencia was beginning to crumble into disarray, and that the very apocalypse was sealed to their fate by just her existence. The queries of Historia’s legitimacy to any royal title or holding were ceaseless. They came just as often as the suspicious letters from the Blood Church. No matter how the Queen replied, terrible conjectures were made of the new bastard princess as some even lamented on the Queen’s undying kindness and love for all. Even for the damned and evil such as the Omen of Saints. 

“Princess Historia,” a servant faintly knocked at her door, announcing that supper was ready, and placed the hot dish on the ground before her chambers and left. After a few minutes, Historia opened the door to her vacant hallway, staring down at the meal, and picking it up, examining it closely. 

Historia exhaled, bringing it inside and closing and locking the door behind her as she went to the latrine and dumped the plate inside—spoon and all. 

She sat at her desk, staring at the towers of books that spiraled upwards in her room—topics ranging around blood and the otherworldly. She even kept her rejection letter from the college of Byrgenwerth—the very one the Frieda wrote herself, imploring Historia’s acceptance as the true sign of the monarchy and church being in alliance, but, Historia’s infamy plagued her even then. All she seemed to prove was a nuisance to her sister’s ruling, causing great clamor no matter how much she isolated herself in her chamber. But, at least the letter would serve a purpose—a crumpled bookmark that saw better days.

“Not eating? This is a new record.” The voice only ever came so often—it was so infrequent she could count on her fingers how many times they met. Historia couldn’t figure out if it was a phantasm or if there was truly a voice talking to her in her head. She sighed, holding her eyes closed, pressing her hands firmly on her book, attempting to will it away. 

“Y’know, you need food to survive,” and her eyes opened, tricking her into seeing that beautiful woman again, sitting in the shadows in her lounging chair. 

It was almost refreshing to hear another person speaking to her, worrying about her like friends should, but it was also unnerving to know that someone—if it was real at all—was able to sneak past all the guards and servants and into her room, unnoticed. 

Most of all, slip past even her sharp senses. 

“Perhaps,” Historia didn’t hold her tongue. The servants and all the people of St. Valencia and beyond knew that she had a monomania of a woman that came to her—when she was younger she was naïve and would always ask of a woman named Ymir until doctors had to give her medicine to make ‘the voices and hallucinations’ to go away. It was a product of her neglectful situation before her adoption into the royal family, they said. 

“But,” she turned, staring at Ymir whose eyes glowed in the darkness, smile shining like metal in the moonlight, “would you eat poison?”

“Poison? Well, I’m certain I would,” Ymir remarked, kicking off the floor and floating by her and towards the latrine, staring down it. 

“Seven days in a row they attempted to assassinate you?” Ymir asked. 

Historia felt her throat and heart burn as her heart sank and as if her very blood grew cold. Over the years, she had studied how to summon demons and Gods and monsters and beasts, hoping she’d find the link between her and the being that was Ymir, but she found nothing. And she wasn’t a fool to think Byrgenwerth was just a college—it was a haven of eldritch knowledge. One that might’ve brought her closer to Ymir, and…

“They try to mask the potent scent through an abundant amount of sweets.” Historia kept her eyes on Ymir. 

How fleeting and fickle this entity was—Historia wouldn’t let her stray from her eyesight, afraid she’d disappear without a trace like before.

“Hoh,” Ymir chuckled, leaning back and laying down in mid-air, levitating to the middle of the room, and watching Historia observe her. 

“You have no shadow.” Historia remarked through a hushed whisper. Ymir was just amused at the statement, closing her eyes. 

“How old are you now, Historia?” Ymir asked, curious.

Historia frowned.

Why would it matter at all? Certainly a beast or thing with such sublime power wouldn’t care for useless information.

“How about we do a trade of information?” Historia countered, causing Ymir to roll over and stand once more, bringing a gloved hand to her chin and thinking. 

“I already know the answer,” Ymir mocked a brooding posture, “have you not the courtesy of small-talk?” 

“Why should small talk matter to you?” Historia curtly pressed, afraid that her aggressive behavior might cause Ymir to disappear. Her visits were always painfully short. 

“Oh, tsk, tsk,” Ymir clicked her tongue, conjuring shadowy dancers in the room, gesturing to them with a grin, but Historia didn’t relent—she kept her hardened gaze at Ymir, ignoring the shadowy puppets who beckoned her to dance. 

Ymir’s face darkened a bit as she clapped, causing them to stop altogether and melt away with wispy screams. 

“You are a queer creature,” Historia stated, “you possess great power—I saw it myself—truthfully, I am burdened by just having met you—when I feel scared, I somehow materialize this arcane and devilish weapon that makes my arm throb in pain, and this only ever happened when I met you.”

“Oh? Is it really fear that makes you harness it?” Ymir sat back down in her seat, bored and tired, but she did not wait for Historia’s response. 

“Y’know, the last time I saw you, you were such a sweet little tot. It was a celebration of your kind—pies and candied hams and of gay things—and you saw me and smiled so sweetly! You even shared your little cache of cookies you had with me…”

Historia gave Ymir a sidelong glance.

“It was my first Yuletide.” 

“Ah, yes, that word, Yuletide, lovely holiday—but, now, what has happened? You look like a beautiful ghost, and you brood and brood like an old man who wasted his life.” Ymir leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. 

“If I may ever be so bold,” she whispered this time, “I would think you’re dead.”  


“If only,” Historia retorted, “maybe then I wouldn’t be hated by the world.” 

“Hated? Oh, you sweet child… they do not hate. They’re afraid of the unknown.” Ymir attempted to soothe her as she went to Historia, walking. 

“Even back when you last saw me,” Historia mustered, “they did not care—they’d still try to poison a child… A child’s blood on their hands meant nothing…”

By the time Ymir was only two feet away, she disappeared and the whole room went into disarray as papers and books went flying and falling in a thunderous ruckus. Historia about jumped out of her seat had it not been Ymir’s hands on her shoulders, standing behind her chair. 

Her mere speed and agility to flank Historia made her entire room a mess…just by the wind it created…

“Yes, I know,” Ymir was quiet, contemplating, and then exhaled, sad, “didn’t I say I’d eat poison?” 

Historia felt her teeth dig into her tongue, realizing a mistake in her theories about Ymir—

“I know, I know,” Ymir’s voice was low, “how dare I—me, this unforgiveable beast—do something that might not be so awful? It’s as if I’m not what you think—eating poison sweets with you on Yuletide. In fact, I remember stealing all but one of them. What a devil I am! Next time, should I leave the rest for you?”

“The cheek!” Historia scoffed, ripping herself from Ymir’s hands and slapping her shoulder. Historia went to the opposite side of the room, pacing, and offended at Ymir’s prodding. 

“The pride!” Ymir mocked, holding her shoulder in feigned pain. 

“Why must you come and go as you please? Why do you even entertain me with your presence? What is it that draws you near me? I must absolutely know, y-you entity!”

“This entity is named Ymir,” the wretched one groaned, hanging her head backwards, bemoaning the lecture she was receiving. 

“And clean my room! Perfect order!” Historia growled, uncaring whether she would incite Ymir’s true wrath or not. The woman clicked her tongue, snorting, and waved her hand as everything floated altogether, returning to their respected places. 

Historia watched, red in anger. Her eyes caught something—a piece of moldy bread from unidentified origins returning behind her dresser—  
“I swear to the Gods, Ymir,” Historia couldn’t stand how much of a little imp she was, “not everything! Throw that in the latrine!”

“Oh, well, if you insist,” Ymir snickered, guiding any garbage and dust to it, dumping it inside. 

“And, don’t forget to answer my questions!”

Ymir finished her little chore and grumbled, glaring at Historia. 

“Why should I? I’m above you in the cosmic hierarchy. You should be receiving orders from me,” she concluded. 

“Yes, but I shouldn’t be burdened with—with this!” Historia tried, but the thing wouldn’t manifest. It only ever did when she was frightened. Just like the first time she was poisoned—the thing appeared in her hand and only the bravest of the doctors attended her, sweating and shaking in fear that he’d meet the same fate as Grisha Jaeger as she fought for her life…

Ymir watched, trying to hold back a giggle at the failure. 

“Stop it! This isn’t even funny!” Historia was near tears, because never had anyone made fun of her dire situation—being poisoned, several assassination attempts, people rioting on her birthdays, and even hearing the servants and their disheartening gossip. 

Ymir shook her head. 

“My dear, it quite is… Here you are, a mere mortal, demanding me to confess all. And, after all the years of training, you cannot even summon your Moonlight Rifle.”

So, that was its name. At least. 

“Moonlight Rifle?”

“Oh, dear, you never asked it for its name? How rude! I wouldn’t appear for you either if you were being this impolite.” Ymir frowned, crossing her arms.

All of this was madness, causing Historia to finally shed tears. 

“I always call for you! I always ask you to come! You never do! I’d pray to the Gods every day for your return! But, you never come! Except for strange times! Did you not see the chalk cirlces on the ground—the diagrams I made to summon you just to see you?! What a terrible, dishonorable demon you are,” she held her face, sobbing.

“You tell me to murder a man who would’ve been my family, and in return I save the Queen, my sister, but, at what cost, Ymir? I am now considered only one step above beast, and several from any hint of humanity. Why not do this to Levi? He would’ve been considered blessed by the Gods for saving the Kingdom from the doctor!” She hissed, stilling the hiccups that threatened to come. 

It was silent as Ymir stared down at Historia, watching her cry. In fact, she could feel the waves of misery radiating off of her like a frothing ocean, threatening to drown her with her own neglect and guilt. 

“Oh, child,” Ymir muttered, ashamed, “I’ve been cruel, haven’t I?”

In a blink of an eye, she swept the room in shadows, taking Historia into an illusionary world of meadows and bowers. She took Historia’s tearstained hand and led her under a crystalline oak. Historia couldn’t comprehend what she witnessed, nor would she quite remember it all, but she did understand the spell Ymir put her under—calming all her senses like the sedatives Frieda often used. All Historia could do was weakly cling to Ymir’s mantle and how she could feel the powerful currents of electricity pulsating through its fur. 

“The fortunate shouldn’t be rewarded for their luck alone, and the skilled can already pull themselves through their own woes,” Ymir’s voice was like a song as it thrummed through her reality, causing marvelous lights to play in her eyes as seasons passed them by. 

“The Gods are sympathetic of mortals,” Ymir spoke, rubbing Historia’s back, “and, ever so much more to those who’re destined to achieve greatness.”

Historia’s hand went limp to the ground as her brain was benumbed by what she felt—the sensation of a million vile parasites at her fingertips, writhing and crawling, brushing against her deadened hand, squirming. Historia’s eyes grew heavy and the world itself was made of flesh, bone, and gaping holes that spewed noxious fumes as visceral fluids moistened the living cavern. 

“And, I just cannot help but follow your short life,” Ymir admitted, lulling her into the mercy of sleep, away from what reality was, “it might be fate.”

Ymir’s eyes watched the centipedes gnaw and eat at the swollen, pus-infected flesh of the floor, laying their bloodied eggs in infected burrows, and eating each other with fervor, but their antics did not interest her as they used to—her attention and her fondness belonged to the girl in her arms, and the rifle that infused with her hand and arm, pulsating like aroused veins. 

“Though, I don’t believe in fate,” Ymir teleported Historia away as she sat in the bewitched tombs of humanity. 

“So, you must forgive me, for your fate isn’t pretty, dearest Historia…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite happy with this chapter, but it will suffice as it does hold enough to be valuable to the story. I apologize for the weak and boring chapter, but I promise future chapters won't be as mild.


	5. Spring's Thaw

With winter’s passing it seemed the city-state of St. Valencia purged itself from the dark memories of the Old District as the streets were flooded with blood markets, occupying the denizens with dizzying drinks and narcotics to fizzle their minds with. The average citizen partook in it every day, replacing their alcohol and tobacco for the potent, and eventually in their own stupor they forgot of the Queen. As spring rounded the corner, the Blood Church fully eclipsed the monarchy in its addictive power, preparing to devour it whole so it may ascend beyond bloodlines and renown, but, however, the monarchy was not to be extinguished so lightly. It held onto its vast army and traditions to keep the people in line from revolting despite the streets constantly spewing propaganda in favor of a church-state. Upon spring’s arrival, the monarchy prepared its largest display of power—the annual opening of Court.

The columns were re-decorated with onyx and rubies, glittering and glistening like roses and black laced thorns. The marble was polished and any impurities were ripped from the palace’s flesh and replaced. Tulips were spun and tied to make great arbors within the gardens and arch ways of every hall and room. Imported wines and cheese were laid on silver platters at every nook and table available as planners and servants swept across every surface, decorating in splendor. 

While the castle itself was proclaimed the closest view to the Heavens humanity would ever glimpse upon, the Queen felt less than satisfied. 

“Look,” Frieda stood at a large window that overlooked the inner-sanctum of the castle walls and onto the streets. Her ghost white hand pointed to a mass of citizens surrounding a speck of a man. “They speak of seditious ways and things.” 

Frieda’s eyes were rimmed with red and tired circles. Historia didn’t try to eavesdrop but the doctors were not quiet when they spoke of her growing paranoia. Her mien was of exhaustion when she and Historia were alone, but when the Queen was in public she was a ray of sunshine. The only indication of her depressed mental state was of the dark circles under her eyes and lack of natural glow. However, the artists were skilled in hiding imperfection with their powdered brushes. 

“They’ll see.” Frieda whispered to herself. She swiveled on her heel and away, returning to her happy self, and overseeing the final touches for the official opening of court. 

“Her mind is decaying,” Ymir was less than subtle as she floated by Historia, watching Frieda disappear into the throng of bickering planners and directors. “I can smell her brain rotting.” 

“Don’t speak of my sister like that,” Historia muttered to her. It had been months since Ymir decided to be a part of her everyday life. Though, sometimes, she wondered if that also was a blessing or curse. “She does much more good than the world will ever know.” 

“Hm,” Ymir followed after Historia when the teenage girl took towards the gardens, “I never did question her character. I only stated something is ailing her mind. Is it that you wish to ignore her frail mental state?” 

“I said enough,” Historia repeated when she went out the doors, inhaling the scent of a thousand flowers. Immediately it made her feel at ease. It felt and smelled a lot better than being cooped up in her room all winter long. It also gave her space from Ymir’s constant yammering. 

“Seditious ways and things,” Ymir lightly teased, floating up near the canopy of the trees, “oh, she’s so upset, isn’t she? A lot is going on but definitely not for her.”

This was normal. 

Historia knew that Ymir wasn’t exactly human but she did try her best. Sometimes. Only if she wanted to. When she wasn’t, it felt like this was all a game in Ymir’s eyes with how she’d laugh over tragedy and small inconveniences, but Historia also knew that her laughing didn’t mean she was apathetic. It did keep Historia wondering why Ymir even bothered sticking around, though, especially if the ‘trifling matters of humanity and its squabbling’ weren’t as interesting as whatever she originated from. 

“Well, I stand correct,” Ymir seemed annoyed as a group of laborers cut through the garden, hauling chairs of ivory and mahogany, “she’s really putting all her cards into this ‘Court’, hm?” 

Historia withdrew into a small, intimate nook of the garden, sitting down and sighing deeply. 

“It’s where the nobles and other royalty partake in a summer’s worth of social events. She says that it’s where you either make your grand entrance, or you get left behind in the social jousting that is the Court,” Historia repeated, tired of it already. 

Ymir descended near her but found the nearby birdbath to be quite delightful instead. She stood on the very rim of it with all the chickadees. A few even peered up at her, tilting their head, and singing sweetly for her. 

“Sounds boring,” Ymir drawled, bringing a finger down and cooing at the little birds, “why get all these stuffy people in one room, trying to outdo each other? Sounds rather pretentious for such a frivolous mortal thing. Truly, when they’re rotting in the ground along with the worms and weevils, all this ‘social jousting’ would be as good as a firm prick up the ass?” 

Another thing about Ymir was that she loved eavesdropping on the servants and throwing their slang into conversation. Often mangling it until it fit her despicable liking. Historia would never tell her but it was entertaining to hear what Ymir loved most about their conversations. She’d dissect their language and pick it out her favorite jargon, and then throw it around in her speeches like she owned it. 

“Here’s the surprise,” Historia smiled, watching as all the birds were flittering around her, excited and brimming with unadulterated love for her, “some people actually find that to be enjoyable.”

They were making quite the fuss. Even Ymir was getting carried away as she languidly suspended herself in the air, whistling back at them. 

“Like what?” She asked. How easily distracted she was for some ominous being!

“A firm prick up the ass.” Historia quoted, chuckling. 

Ymir stopped altogether, staring off the side of Historia before giggling. She winked at the blonde and dematerialized before her eyes. Freckles and all. 

Historia rolled her eyes. 

“Why are you hiding all of a sudden?” Historia stood up, waiting for Ymir to pop up and scare her like usual. “You might as well come out. I don’t have the patience for it.” 

Historia heard Ymir near the entrance to the alcove and was going to chide her for being so spontaneous until she met icy eyes instead. 

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” an older woman with an accent came through the grove. Historia’s eyes widened as she bit back her tongue. “I felt it’d be inappropriate of me to walk in on your conversation.” 

Immediately, the birds darted away, causing the woman’s eyes to flick around. The stranger’s eyebrow arched upwards before she schooled it. 

Historia couldn’t utter a peep as she heard Ymir giggling from somewhere. 

“Especially… of pricks being in asses?” This time a ghost of a smile curled on the woman’s lips. Historia went flush red as she squeezed her eyes shut, lulling her head to the side and biting her lips into submission for being so crass in public. 

“Right,” she squeaked between gritted teeth, “um, that…”

“Excuse my rudeness,” the woman took off her leather tricorn, bowing her head in a foreign custom. It was hard to take it as due politeness since the gleam in her eyes told Historia she was teasing her, greatly, for her strange conversation. “I am Annie Leonhardt, beneficiary of Lady Maria. I was given sponsorship to attend the Court this season.”

She licked her lips, adjusting the stray blonde hairs from her face and gave a gesture to the flailing workers. 

“However, it seems I’ve arrived unfashionably early.” She added, pulling up from her strange bow. “I digress, mistress— may I know your name?”

Historia couldn’t stop staring despite the woman’s signs of uncertainty. She hadn’t seen such a pretty woman since… 

“My, she’s quite pretty,” Ymir remarked, leaning against the iron lattice, “maybe I should’ve made my physical form more like her.” 

Ymir was right, though. 

The woman was very handsome and beautiful. 

Her choice of fashion was strange but Historia recognized it as the queer garb the Choir wore—the people who were slowly peeling the throne from Frieda. Even then, the Inverness coat was intricately made and stood out from the plain attire the Choir adorned. The caplet and cloak were made from a fine champagne silk, covering the dark Pendleton wool coat. The fabrics edges were embroidered with gleaming, golden floss—

“What a sharp dresser, too,” Ymir commented, greedily eyeing the woman’s boots. Slowly, the very same boots began to form on Ymir’s feet until she had a replica pair. “Oh, you humans do make such interesting things. I particularly like your footwear!” 

Miss Leonhardt had dark circles under her eyes but she was very much young. Not younger than Historia but still in her prime. 

“My name is Historia, Historia Reiss,” she could only muster. She was stricken with the cold appearance of the woman, because she had never seen an aloof beauty such as Annie Leonhardt. 

Extending her hand, Leonhardt took Historia’s and leaned down, kissing the back of it. 

“You are the princess, then,” she kept it to her lips a moment too long before returning to her normal posture, releasing Historia from her captivation, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

She almost seemed a little surprised. 

“Charmer, huh?” Ymir snorted. “Oh, well, I can’t help that, can I? Having fun, Historia?” 

“The pleasure is mine,” Historia slipped into her royal persona, taught and reprimanded for years by her tutor until it finally stuck, “I’m afraid I don’t recall the Leonhardt family. I’m still learning of history. Enlighten my fleeting mind?” 

Leonhardt’s face was cool and stoic as she held her hands behind her back, clicking her tongue. 

“My family isn’t known in Saint Valencia, so I am here to unofficially officially make an appearance for their namesake.” She responded. 

“Oh, right,” Historia heard Ymir snickering. Leonhardt did state that she was here on sponsorship…

“It’s quite okay. It’s rare for new faces to appear in court, yes?” Leonhardt’s tongue slipped as it fell into a deeper accent. It sent Historia into a small tizzy. 

Ymir could only yawn in the background. 

“I didn’t know you were into accents? How cliché of you, Historia,” Ymir huffed, pushing off the wall and drifting to her until she was right by her side. 

“Sorry,” Leonhardt apologized, caught off guard, “I’m still learning your nation’s language. It’s a bit hard on the tongue.” 

“I-It’s okay,” Historia had to turn away, going back to where she was sitting, “it was… nice meeting you, Leonhardt.”

“What? Really?” Ymir cried out, annoyed. “That’s what this led up to?”

“Likewise.” Leonhardt did another bow despite Historia not witnessing it. Ymir just stuck her tongue out at the woman. “I hope to see more of you at the Court, princess Historia.” 

Leonhardt departed, striding into the shadow of the castle and disappearing behind a door as more servants spilled out, barking orders and instructions. 

“Hm. Let’s see,” Ymir was counting on her fingers, “ah, right, six. Hm. Ah, oh well, not a bother compared to me and you. Say, Historia, dear, what is it that you find most charming about her? You already live among beautiful people and she’s no different. Perhaps a little more aloof and barren regarding the family lineage.” 

Historia was fidgeting as she wrung her hands together. She couldn’t tell Ymir or else she’d fear being reprimanded for being naïve. 

“Ah, I see,” Ymir sat beside Historia, wrapping her dark cloaked hand around the girl’s waist, “she’s the first person to be kind to you, isn’t she? That is why she somehow snuck her way into your heart just now, hm? How… innocent.” 

Historia could only lean against Ymir, shyly smiling as she stared at the ground and admired the green clovers.


	6. Attendance

“Historia,” Ymir’s voice invaded her dreams. In fact, the devil herself popped in, floating, and staring at her as Historia stood before her mother’s home—the cottage in a lonely village past the hoary forest. “Fighting old battles again?”

“What is it?” Historia stood at the stone steps, intently watching the building burn as the distant screams were tuned out. 

“I have a surprise—one you’d find most enticing,” Ymir purred. 

“If it’s a dead rat, I will be most displeased,” Historia drawled as everything went black and she was conscious in the real world once more. 

“Oh, I promise it won’t be that! It was hilarious, though, Historia—truly! I even dressed it in frills of your old dolls—you should’ve really seen your face! Perhaps you’d’ve found it just as funny.” Ymir continued as she went to the door and phased through it. 

Historia took the occupied candle holder on her nightstand and lit its wick, watching as its waning flame illuminated the room. She yawned and swung her feet to her bed’s edge and paused, wondering whether she should ignore Ymir’s proposition and go back to bed. 

“What of the curfew?” Historia asked. “Frieda doesn’t like it when I leave my room after an hour, Ymir.”

“Ah, yes, yes,” Ymir popped her head through the wall, frowning, and rolling her eyes in a most human nature. “Your sister is paranoid. These halls are much safer than the strange deaths outside its walls. Must you be such a sour puss?” 

“Humans value their sleep,” Historia reminded, “without it, you’ll find I’m cranky and, as you say, a sour puss.” 

Historia got up and took the candleholder with her and unlatched the locks on her door. There were quite a lot due to the failed attempts of assassinations. Not that she had to worry any more with Ymir here—the-would-be’s were often found horrendously mutilated. Historia had the better mind to not ask Ymir. The little devil smiled at her, bobbing her head around humorously through the door until Historia shoved it back through. She heard Ymir’s chuckle as she opened her door and quietly shut it behind her. 

“No worries, my dearest,” Ymir wagged a gloved finger at her, “I will ensure we’re not found by any pesky patrols tonight.” 

“Yes, but what is it you want to show me?” Historia didn’t really have the patience to play. 

“Ah! Sour puss, again! It’s a surprise!” Ymir feigned offense. “I’ve known you since you were a babe. Do you not trust me to know your interests?”

“I trust your knowledge, but I don’t trust that you’ll separate it from your own. Sometimes, I wonder if you only tote me along to shock me and revel in it.” Historia followed Ymir down the hall and Ymir kept floating ahead. 

“Too perceptive!” Ymir shushed and suddenly disappeared. Historia knew to stop in her tracks as she heard distant footsteps approaching. She listened in. 

The guard was lowly whistling as he went and then it halted altogether. 

“Blasted beast,” he whispered, “second time this night.” 

The footsteps began again but started to fade into the distance. Ymir reappeared with a smile. A very cheeky one.

“What did you do?” Historia asked. She tried not to indulge her fiend but sometimes her curiosity was too great. 

“I conjured seductive thoughts into his head! Off to a private room to, hm, entertain himself,” Ymir wagged her finger in raunchy way. Historia scoffed. 

“Continue,” she urged Ymir and the woman led her to the personal foyer. From there, she opened the doors to the balcony. The spring breeze animated the dreary room as all the tapestries waved in salute and the silk curtains danced, shrouding Ymir in the romantic light of the moon and its splendor. 

“This is where we depart,” Ymir coaxed Historia to come closer as her gloved hand extinguished the candle, “I must admit—where we're going might even be hard for me to hide. These folks I’ve found—the interesting kind, dear—they have insight. There are eyes inside their skulls that can see past mortality.” 

“They see the dead? Are you dead?” It never occurred to Historia that Ymir might’ve been a specter of a sort. The woman was so powerful and lively it was hard to even hold the impression. 

“Of course not,” Ymir assured. “See, these people are like you.”  


Historia’s eyes widened and she felt her heart race. People that were like her—people who wouldn’t see her as an outcast but a normal person amongst peers? 

“They can see you,” it dawned on her. 

“Yes. Not as clearly as you, my sweet, but they can if they will it.” Ymir warned and took Historia’s hand. “Now, hold tight, or else I will be the one who can see the dead.”

**-x-x-x-**

The planetarium was once a place of high regards where the most astute of scholars resided, but the discovery of a greater terror had led many to flock to Byrgenwerth and its zealous studies of the oceans in hopes to find the Truth, or maybe even the home of the Great Ones. Historia hadn’t need to be a student of the esteemed college to know this—it was spoken of often in the higher echelons that were seasoned with education.

Yet, this was the place where strange people like her were gathering. 

“Why must we be hidden?” Historia dared ask Ymir. 

“We are safe from their Eyes,” Ymir whispered as she tucked them higher and further into the rafters, hiding amongst forgotten crates and dust and tarp amongst its shelves. “Now be quiet. They draw near.” 

As Ymir said, cloaked figures came in with torches, lighting the braziers and lanterns nearby, and revealing the gagged and bound man on an operation table in the middle of the room. Historia nearly gasped if it hadn’t been for Ymir’s gloved hand. 

She kept it there as a familiar figure strode in. 

“Annie,” she breathed. “What is she doing—“

Ymir gave a warning look at Historia. 

‘Use your head.’ The dark woman tapped her own temple.

‘Ymir. How did you know of this? Why is Annie here?’ Historia thought and asked but Ymir didn’t answer as she kept watching below. 

“We have an Infected Specimen. He has the class identifications of Beasthood.” Leonhardt was instructing as the other cloaked figures stood off to the side, drawing their hoods down. They were all unfamiliar until she saw two faces—Eren and Mikasa. 

“Take note of the excess hair—some men and women are hairier than most, but his hair is starting to become wiry and gaining a red tinge. His nails are becoming claws—see how the keratin is forming sharp edges, polished, refined, and blackened. These are details that’ll become apparent in earlier cases,” she was picking at the shaking man like he was an animal. 

‘Beasts?’ Historia questioned but Ymir did not answer. 

“It’s best to remove these infected from the populace before they become a Class II.” Leonhardt had her hands behind her back, striding back and forth in the room. 

Eren took a step forward. 

“Miss Leonhardt,” he spoke, “this man is past Class I.” 

Some of the students snickered but Leonhardt didn’t. 

“Yes, you observe correctly, Jaeger, but, this session will have no questions until the demonstration is over.” She gently reminded and he bowed his head, standing back. 

“As Jaeger has observed, this man has been in Class II for a while,” she went back to the man. He began to grunt profusely and thrash about. The table was creaking and groaning in protest. 

“Observe—his eyes are discolored and appears to have jaundice. They’re oddly bloodshot. His mouth may be of more interest,” she began to unfasten the bindings of the gag and yanked it off no moment less. 

“HELP ME! OH, HAVE MERCY!” 

Historia felt her heart drop in her chest. She didn’t like what this was starting to look like… 

Ymir’s hand removed itself from her mouth and went to her hand, taking it and squeezing it. 

“Ignore his pleas. He’s far beyond help as of now. Iosefka wouldn’t have use of him either.” She quelled any discomfort that there might’ve been, as if she knew Historia’s presence and anxiety. “His last moments of humanity will be far more educational than being slaughtered outright.” 

Leonhardt went to a counter and retrieved a strange tool that was like the gag, but, instead, it kept his mouth open. 

“NO! PLEASE! I BEG OF YOU!” The man’s voice was hoarse and his pronunciation was being dragged out like he was struggling to make sense of it all, but Leonhardt paid no attention. She skillfully pried his mouth open with a gloved hand and somehow wrangled the device onto the man. 

“Now, allow me to show you through the looking glass,” she swiveled the hanging magnify glass down and positioned it so the students would see. From their perch, Ymir and Historia would witness, too. 

“View his canines.” Leonhardt ordered. The man’s teeth were becoming rotten fangs, discolored yellow, orange, and brown. “They’re becoming elongated.” 

The man’s cries were becoming more like gurgles with time. 

“Step back thrice,” Leonhardt instructed her students. “And witness why the adage is sacred.” 

The man couldn’t stop jolting around. It was becoming frenzied as the bolts on the table were being grinded from their rust and the wood splintered at its joints. The man’s mouth frothed like a deranged beast with rabies.

With a splash of blood, his bones were snapping outside of his flesh, growing at a dizzying pace as some of the leather straps began to cut off circulation to his new bulging muscles. He howled and convulsed with claws digging and scratching as his feet pushed into the table, denting its metal surface. 

“This is Beasthood. No longer is humanity here—his family and his life? Gone. He is no longer. Do not hesitate in this moment of defining men and beast—it is gone. He is gone. And, like any beast, you must hunt.” Leonhardt drew out a blade that was behind her back. In a swift motion, the trick weapon released its true form as she decapitated the beast. 

Historia couldn’t help the gasp that came from her mouth. The students hadn’t heard but Leonhardt’s ears had. Her gaze shot upwards to the rafters, glaring for the intruder. 

“What is our adage?” She spoke but did not remove her searching eyes. 

“We are born of the blood,” the students repeated in a harmonious tone, lifting like a gothic choir. 

“Made men by the blood,  
undone by the blood.  
Our eyes are yet to open.” 

Ymir didn’t waste a second to cloak them into the higher planes of existence, far from Leonhardt’s perception. 

“By the Gods,” Annie’s voice was reverent, “fear it.”

**-x-x-x-**

The night had thoroughly robbed Historia of any desired sleep. She could only sit at her desk, staring at her journals and research papers—she had reread them all night long, recalling how feverishly and desperately she implored to be accepted into Byrgenwerth. How every night and day and hour and second was spent honing her academics and likelihood of becoming a model prospect for the college…

“All for what,” she asked herself. 

To… chain men… and watch them become monsters? 

Was that the true reason? 

It wasn’t public but it wasn’t a secret either to know the Healing Church was tied to the aloof college. 

If she had been accepted, she would have been like Leonhardt. She would’ve killed a man with no remorse. No hesitation. 

It all boggled her mind. Why wouldn’t they find a cure? Why wouldn’t they detain him and let the public know that there was some horrendous disease ravaging the citizens and turning them mindless? Morphing them into terrible beasts?

“Perhaps there’s no cure,” Ymir answered. She had been quiet all night until now. “The folly of man is often being too curious yet not wise.” 

“I don’t understand,” Historia buried her face into her hands, rubbing her hurting eyes. “I truly don’t.” 

“You’re kind and sweet,” Ymir soothed, “you wish to end torment—you really do—the one who has been tormented all her life—hated even… yet, you cannot picture it done through Death. Your innocence is something to be treasured. I can see the cosmos and intricacies of life, but your purity is something to be cherished. Even for a devil like me.” 

Ymir was as sincere as she could be. 

“What is even causing this,” Historia tried to search for similar cases in records or books but found none. She knew it was in vain because she knew very well the answer would be in locked away in Byrgenwerth like all of the world’s darkest truths. 

“I could tell you it,” Ymir felt sorry. Historia could hear it. “If it makes you feel better, I can tell you this isn’t the first time, but, you’d have to know the truth, and the truth might drive you mad.” 

Historia choked. 

“Miss Reiss,” she nearly jumped out of her seat upon hearing a servant. “Correspondence.” 

A letter was slipped underneath her door. 

Ymir remained grim. She didn’t even jest as she picked up the letter for Historia and handed it over. 

“You might not lose yourself to insanity if you discover it yourself, though.” Ymir suggested. “I would rather not lose you, my love.” 

Historia was too numb to give a proper response as she took the letter into her shaky hands. She didn’t want to think much more on the subject—it was going to drive her insane sooner than the bloody truth Ymir kept hiding. 

She cut it open and took the perfumed parchment out. She unfolded it and read it. 

_Due to circumstances, you’ve been invited to attend the private classes of Miss Annie Leonhardt on behalf of herself and the Healing Church._

_May you find comfort in the pursuit of Insight and the healing properties of Blood. We await your attendance in Court._

Historia cried.


	7. Welcome

Historia clutched the letter to her breast as her eyes were fixed on the ceiling. 

“Will you attend today?” Ymir asked. In a rare mood, she sat on the bed like a normal person. “You missed the orientation yesterday.” 

Historia knew that Ymir could invade her mind at any given moment, but she didn’t. Ever since she witnessed the torturing of that man—that beast—she barely had the heart to leave her room, let alone be within Leonhardt’s presence. The woman would see through her if she hadn’t already. 

“I never applied for the Healing Church.” Historia finally replied. 

Ymir averted her gaze to the ground, thinking. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. 

“Your sister loathes the Healing Church and their ambition to overthrow St. Valencia.” Ymir quietly admitted. “Byrgenwerth would have never accepted. They haven’t accepted anyone in years.” 

Historia shot up, glaring at Ymir. 

“I would’ve rather lived my life without!” She threw the letter in Ymir’s freckled face. It hit her with a pleasing crinkle of paper. “But you’ve somehow manipulated these bastards into seeking me out and bringing me into the fold! Had you not thought that this would put me in a bad situation?!” 

Ymir’s mouth formed a tight line as she only stared. It infuriated Historia. 

“I am now a part of my sister’s largest and most dangerous enemy! How could you—“

“Princess Historia,” a knocking came from the servant. “You have correspondence from Miss Leonhardt. She directly spoke to me and implored that it was of high importance and that you should attend as soon as possible.” 

Historia shut her mouth as the letter was slipped under her door. She listened until the servant left before staring at Ymir. It seemed the entity was beginning to show signs of remorse and regret. Perhaps living amongst humanity was culturing and conditioning her into certain emotions. Historia could hardly doubt that Ymir actually felt shame for what she did—the woman never did!

Historia was too busy ripping open the letter to see or hear Ymir as she floated off the bed and went to the blonde’s side. 

“Historia,” Ymir tried but Historia nearly jumped out of her skin. She cursed and slapped Ymir’s arm. 

“What did I say about sneaking up on me!?” Historia didn’t mean to snap at her more, but she couldn’t help it. Ymir had this knack for dragging her into all sorts of mischief and danger. Historia knew she didn’t mean it, but it was hard not to be angry when she could die at any moment and Ymir wouldn’t even get a slap on the wrists. 

“What is it?” Historia gave an exhausted exhale, warning Ymir that this was one of her impatient days. 

“I don’t think you should fear your sister,” Ymir gently held Historia’s face in her large hand. “Ever since Old St. Valencia burned down, she has been ill in the mind. I do not say this to bash her, Historia, because you love her and so I must love her, too, but, you are next in line and it’s best if you become aware of your lineage.” 

Historia was still. She knew Ymir hardly ever spoke so serious except when things were about to get awful. 

“Ymir… don’t do this…” she felt like crying all over again. That night was more than enough to frighten her. She didn’t want to think today held anymore surprises. “You keep setting me up… I feel like you’re intent on hurting me…”

In a flash, Ymir’s hands were cupping Historia’s face and forcing her to stare into golden eyes. 

“Never. Now, don’t ever accuse me of such things again, or I will feel like you’re intent on hurting me.” She said. With a slow lean, she gave a soft kiss to Historia’s forehead. “Now, may I finish?” 

Historia took a few seconds but she nodded in agreement as her thumb idly rubbed against the unread letter from Leonhardt. 

“Your sister’s future is uncertain, Historia, but I can guarantee yours. By doing so, I may be able to save your sister so I must ask, beg, implore—whatever sounds more earnest than that Leonhardt’s!—that you trust me and walk this path I’ve made for you.” Ymir’s fingers brushed over Historia’s skin countless times before releasing the blonde. 

“Now,” Ymir cleared her throat, moving away with a blush, “how about we get to this letter, yes? I want to see if Leonhardt scandalously poured her perfume into this one, too!” 

Historia didn’t want to admit it but Ymir was endearing in her own way. For being this awesome, fear-inducing being, Ymir was very easily embarrassed and shy of her own emotions. 

“Of course,” Historia felt a smile tug on her lips, earning a grin from Ymir as she pulled out the letter.

“Oh? No perfume?” Ymir whiffed at the air. “Perhaps she realized she was too bold the first time! Poor Leonhardt!” 

“Oh, you.” Historia swatted at the air lightly to shut Ymir up from her teasing. She returned her attention to the letter and read as Ymir peered over Historia’s shoulder. 

_Dear Historia,_

_Yesterday, I was concerned to see that you did not attend the orientation. I understand from your previous tutors that you were always punctual, so I send this letter in hopes it finds you healthy._

_If you’re well, I ask that you visit me at your little nook in the garden. I can see why it’s your favorite. It will become a good friend of mine as I read St. Valencia’s books._

_\- A. Leonhardt_

Leonhardt’s writing was beautiful with traces of foreign influences. It was excessively sharp like the iron fences that lined the graveyard, but it was also charming because of it. 

Historia was actually surprised. Ymir didn’t give some remark like she usually did. Historia peered over her shoulder to see Ymir intently staring back. 

“No comments?” Historia didn’t know why she asked. It wasn’t like she actually wanted to hear one, but it was so uncharacteristic of Ymir to be so… quiet. 

“Only one,” Ymir let her feet fall silently to the ground as she stood, towering over Historia. Sometimes, Historia forgot just how tall Ymir was. It was breathtaking as it was panicking. 

“Will you heed her pleas and begin?” Ymir frowned. 

Historia hadn’t answered Ymir’s worries earlier on whether she’d follow the path Ymir had set for her. She didn’t give her a clue on her decision either. 

“She asks nicely enough.” Ymir was upset by something. Historia could only grin a bit when it dawned on her. 

“No, I won’t.” Historia said but she went to her dresser to get ready. 

“Oh?” Ymir walked over, watching Historia search for the right dress. “But, you’re getting ready… I thought you weren’t going to visit her?” 

“I am.” Historia stated as she stopped. She turned to Ymir, and, with all her balance, she tiptoed up to cup Ymir’s face. “But I am not heeding her pleas. I am walking this path you gave me. It’s what you want, is it not?”

Historia could’ve died. 

She honestly could have with the dangerous look Ymir’s eyes glinted, but the reddening of her cheeks and her immediately cowering away from Historia’s touch had told her otherwise. 

“You are ridiculous!” Ymir got after her. Oh, how the tables turned! “You play with words like drunkards play their cards! How awful! I truly chose the wrong, sad orphan to grace my blessings to! Just awful!”

**-x-x-x-**

“Oh! She’s pacing, Historia! Look at her!” Ymir hissed in mirth. “She must be thinking she got jilted once more!”

Historia chose to wore a simple blue summer dress. While there were many at court, her infamous reputation preceded her and gave her a generous amount of distance between her and the people. Nobody wanted to be associated with the ominous bastard that’s foretold to ruin the great Kingdom of St. Valencia. 

“Sarcastic as usual,” Ymir commented on Historia’s thoughts. “I will go off and speak with the guests while you two flirt.”

“Ymir… don’t do anything terrible.” Historia warned her. Ymir gave her a charming wink before disappearing into thin air. 

Historia shook her head but put her eyes forward again. She was barely able to see into the garden’s nook, finding that Leonhardt really was pacing around. She could even hear some garbled mutterings coming from her. 

“Thank you for being patient,” Historia spoke up as Leonhardt’s icy eyes shot up. Immediately, she straightened her back and squared her shoulders. 

“Ah!” Leonhardt’s voice was full of relief. “I’m glad you could make it, Princess… I was afraid that—well, I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.” 

“I apologize for yesterday. I was feeling very sick.” Historia lightly courtsied for Leonhardt. After all, she was an upcoming noblewoman. It would be rude not to. Historia smiled when she saw Leonhardt bow deeply in that weird fashion.

Leonhardt appeared to have reverted to her previous aloof self as she stood at attention. 

“I want to congratulate you for being chosen to become a part of the Healing Church. Many seek it out but you seemed to have captured its fleeting attention. Perhaps fate has something for you,” Leonhardt put her hands behind her back. 

If Leonhardt had known of what Historia and Ymir had witnessed, she made no indication of showing. It made Historia nervous but she didn’t let down her guard. Better safe than sorry. Who knew if Ymir would be around to save her. 

“Let’s go to the library. I’ve amassed tomes from my personal collection and what’s available from the Workshop.” She was already walking, leading the way for them. 

Many servants gaped and stared at seeing the two walking together. Even some guests were baffled that anyone would approach the outcast Princess. Historia was used to such attention and gossip, but it was evident Leonhardt wasn’t. As they rounded the corner into the more secluded chapters of the castle, Leonhardt flicked her cold gaze to Historia and then discreetly glanced over her shoulder. 

“Princess,” Leonhardt only stared at Historia in the corner of her eye as they were approaching the private library. “It seems that we attract a lot of attention. Are foreigners like me rare?” 

Historia was surprised that Leonhardt hadn’t heard more about her. It seemed like everyone she ever came into contact with already had a nasty impression of her, but… Annie didn’t…

“Not at all, but for the Court? A little.” Historia stopped at the doors as Leonhardt pulled them open with ease. It usually took the servants at least ten seconds to haul them open. “However, it isn’t because of you. I’m not well liked.”

“By the Court?” The huntress followed behind Historia before putting a hand on her lower back. Historia nearly froze if it wasn’t for Leonhardt guiding her to sit at the main table. It was stacked with dusty books. Musty scrolls of old and new littered the bases of the towering tomes. 

“No.” Historia was amazed at all the new knowledge that was before her. It could take a month to get through it all. “By everyone.” 

Leonhardt was quiet as she observed. Historia wondered what the other woman was thinking, but her expression was unreadable. 

“I see.” Leonhardt finally said. It gave no light as to what she thought of Historia now. “It’s a pity.” 

Historia frowned, waiting for Leonhardt to inquire further or to shun her like the others. 

“You don’t seem like a bad person.” Leonhardt was unaware of the impact her words were leaving on Historia. She couldn’t help but look away at the books as her mentor idly tapped on the table. 

“These books will become second-nature to you. It might take a year for you retain all this information. I will only be available as long as the Court’s season lasts. Afterwards, I will return to my homeland and you will be brought into the Workshop to finish your studies.” Leonhardt smiled when Historia finally got the nerve to look at her again. “However, I have a prediction you’ll excel in this literature. Your previous tutors praised your fast learning.” 

Historia almost laughed. She knew her tutors probably said awful things, too, because it wasn’t uncommon for one of them to try and invite her to some poisoned treats. Ymir was happy to oblige and eat them when her tutors weren’t looking. It happened so often that people began to whisper in fear that Historia was immune to poison—blood so corrupt that even evilness would dissipate at mere contact. 

“I am an avid reader. I have my own research papers and theories,” Historia mentioned. “Perhaps these skills will do well in what you ask of me, Leonhardt.” 

“I won’t keep you waiting, then.” Leonhardt’s smile fell as she got up and strode to the window, gazing out of it. Historia immediately began with the oldest book she could find, appreciating that everything was categorized and dated so well. Leonhardt and the Workshop took their studies serious and Historia even felt excited to learn more, but the nagging guilt kept her true eagerness at bay. She could only think of what Frieda would say or think… 

“Pardon,” Leonhardt spoke up before Historia could get past the first page, “but, may I inquire as to why part of your city has burned?” 

Historia stared at the window, too, wracking her mind for the most intelligent, concise answer she could give. There were several rumors as to what happened, but she knew that the Healing Church had secretly done the burning. 

At her sister’s command. 

She couldn’t exactly tell Leonhardt that, but she had an inkling that she might’ve already knew. 

“The outbreak of Ashen Blood had led old St. Valencia into shambles. Many were perishing and turning into beasts because of it. It was quarantined by the Healing Church as they tried to save everyone through blood ministration and slaying the beasts, but we don’t know what started the fires. The Healing Church said a rogue band of militia got cornered and released the flames.” Historia said, watching Leonhardt for a reaction. 

“Mercy on your people,” Leonhardt breathed, “what destruction… what came of the Ashen Blood? Does it still persist?” 

“No.” It felt bitter in her mouth as she glared down at her book. She was reminded why she hated the Healing Church. “The Healing Church had found a cure after a month of the burning. Thanks to my sister’s funding, it would have not been possible, but, instead, she was blamed for the burning and the Church was praised as a savior…” 

Leonhardt was quiet for a while. 

“Mm. That’s unfortunate… I will personally see to it that the issue gets resolved within.” Leonhardt swiveled on her heel and went to the corner of the library where a trunk was hidden in the shadows. She unlocked and opened it, rummaging through the books and trinkets within until she produced a stack of papers. She went to Historia’s side, placing them right in front of her. 

“I was asked to overlook this manuscript by a colleague. I enjoy reading but not of these sort of things. Perhaps you can gain an edge over your peers by helping the man publish his findings?” Leonhardt offered, pushing the papers closer to Historia. “But, do tell if I’m overwhelming your workload. It’s an offer you can decline.”

Historia didn’t know what the research was on. The stack had no label or title. Only a date and a hastily, illegible name written on the front. 

“I accept.” She took it as a chance to prove her intelligence and, maybe, impress Leonhardt. The desire to overachieve and become great amongst the Healing Church was overwhelming Historia now. She wanted nothing better than to rule it and make it succumb to her sister’s will. They had wronged them too many times, abusing Frieda’s generosity and selflessness. 

Frieda had only asked one thing of them… 

Leonhardt put a hand on Historia’s shoulder. 

“Excellent. Hopefully, those papers will be more interesting to you than me. Now, I excuse myself. I must attend a luncheon with some dignitaries.” 

Historia didn’t know what to start first—reading or editing the manuscript? Her learning was time sensitive due to Leonhardt’s schedule, but the unknown manuscript was being awaited upon. 

Historia rolled her shoulders, exhaling. 

“Study.” She moved the research off to the side and began to pore over her new studies.

**-x-x-x-**

“Frieda?” Historia opened the door and closed it behind her. She pressed her back against the doors, waiting for the response, but Frieda was quiet. She never really spoke in this room.

“I wanted to tell you something, Frieda.” Historia continued, hoping her sister was actually listening. 

At the other end of the dimly lit room was a bed. Frieda sat at the edge of it as her hand ran through Levi’s hair. 

It had been a long time since he was awake. He had slipped into a deep, undisturbed slumber that he could not wake from. The wounds that Grisha had inflicted upon him were dire and the surgeons didn’t attend to him fast enough. 

For years, he laid here in silence, sleeping into eternity. He only moved when the servants would bathe or feed him the concoctions the Healing Church produced. The medicine and sustenance only helped prolong his sleep and ensured he didn’t die from starvation and dehydration. 

Years.

Years of nothing. 

Yet, Frieda remained. Every day, she visited her would-be King and prayed for mercy and hope. She had given her all to try and have Levi return to her—she threw her pride out the window, gave the Healing Church funds, watched them backstab her and turn the public against her, and all for what?

To find a cure to awake Levi. 

Instead… the Healing Church found cures for all diseases and pains and limitations. All except Levi’s. 

It was practically a spit in the face. It felt as if they were intentionally torturing Frieda day in and day out by pretending they were searching. Historia used to think they were doing their best, but naivety was short lived. 

“I…” 

It caught in Historia’s throat. 

How could she say she had joined the very thing that had ruined Frieda’s life? 

Maybe…

Perhaps…

It wasn’t the Healing Church, but herself that did it. 

If Historia hadn’t shown up, maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe Levi and her sister would’ve been happily wedded and with children. 

“What is it?” Frieda asked but never took her attention of her fiancé. 

“I… I wanted to say that… the Court this year is really beautiful… the best it’s ever been.”

A low chuckle came from Frieda.

“Yes, yes it has.” 

“I just wanted to tell you that… Goodnight, Frieda.”

“Historia?”

“Yes?” She stopped in the hall, looking back into the darkness where her sister was. 

“Don’t be afraid to tell me things. Okay?” Frieda’s voice was haunting and sad. 

“Of course.” 

Further and further, Historia wrapped herself in the web of lies she had to maintain, unknowing to what spider Ymir was conjuring.


End file.
